


Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega armand, alpha marius, alpha santino, dubcon, mentions of past sexual abuse, takes places during TVA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: “We can help you,” Santino says gently. Amadeo can’t remember when he fed last—it’s hard to see in the dark, he can only make out the silhouette as he leans against the door frame. “We help each other here.”There’s a vision of it that Santino puts in his head, a quick flash. Santino, with the others. Groups of them together.Helping.It makes Amadeo’s insides churn. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t. Truly. But he can smell Santino and the idea of sharing him is… is…
Relationships: Armand/Marius de Romanus, Armand/Santino (Vampire Chronicles)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 36





	Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys lmao how's it going, been a while. have some omegaverse that no one asked for or even wants!!!! 😎 
> 
> I named this after [a Mephorash song](https://youtu.be/hWjpoquD0Mw) that I was listening to a lot while I was writing.
> 
> I "chose not to use archive warnings" bc they're all a bit ambiguous. This is an AU of sorts but I hope the context off the bat will help you decide if it's something you want to read. Is Armand underage? Dunno. How dubious is the consent? Readers choice. I can only guarantee that vampires call all humans "child" bc they're condescending and they're old as fuck LMAO but don't read too much into it. Your mileage may vary, enter at your own risk. ✌️

They bring his thirst to the edge. Over, and over.

Feed him the boys.

He hungers until it’s dark again, until he can’t speak anymore. Too weak to move, to think. It’s impossible to know how much time has gone by since he fed on Riccardo; all he knows is that the last of Riccardo’s blood has gone cold inside him, quiet, and he’s hungry again.

And it hurts so much he doesn’t even notice right away.

In fairness to himself, he’s still young. Inexperienced. It only happened once while he was alive, and then again when he was turned. Strange how it overlaps with the hunger, and he’s not sure which one is masking the other, just knows that it hurts. Everything hurts.

They come and peer at him through the door and he feels them watching. Always watching. He keeps feeling the wetness between his legs, the smallest shimmer of pleasure where he touches it, body begging for more, but he hasn’t become desperate enough. Too shameful, with them watching. His cock aches and his body leaks and he would cry if he had the energy to.

He’s not even looking, but he feels Santino in the doorway on the second night of it. _Smells_ him. He thinks it hadn’t been obvious before, but it flows off him now. Amadeo wants it. Wants him. His body clenches and aches with need.

“We can help you,” Santino says gently. Amadeo can’t remember when he fed last—it’s hard to see in the dark, he can only make out the silhouette as he leans against the door frame. “We help each other here.”

There’s a vision of it that Santino puts in his head, a quick flash. Santino, with the others. Groups of them together. _Helping_.

It makes Amadeo’s insides churn. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t. Truly. But he can smell Santino and the idea of sharing him is… is…

He steps into the room, closer. Amadeo curls in tighter towards the wall, away from him, pressing close against the dirt.

“Stay away,” he whines, but Santino presses forward.

He crouches down beside Amadeo and the scent is so robust here, overpowering. Amadeo’s heart rages in his chest and he breathes hard through his mouth, curls his hands into fists to keep from reaching out.

But Santino reaches, instead. He pets Amadeo’s hair back from his face—curls knotted and filthy.

“Would you like my help, child?”

Amadeo whimpers.

“Give yourself to us,” he whispers.He pets down the side of Amadeo’s head, settling on his neck. Thumb strokes purposefully over Amadeo’s glands. “We will help you.”

It’s a tipping point, Amadeo knows. His body is rigid with need, hindbrain begging him to accept. He opens his mouth to speak and can’t find the words, too weak, too delirious. Santino’s nails press gently into his glands, mockery of a bite, and he nods.

“I will bring you a human,” he says. “You may feed, and we can speak again.”

And then the darkness once more, and the hunger, and hours going by. Hours and hours until he hears them in the corridor, and smells the frightened human. They push him into the cell and the human doesn’t even see Amadeo there. He’s immediately crying out to be freed, pounding at the door, and Amadeo only has the strength to crawl.

He bites at the achilles first, just a taste, enough for the burst of motivation it takes to overpower him. The human collapses to the floor and Amadeo is on top, pinning him down to drink from the throat.

His senses light up, one at a time, as he drinks in long pulls. It feels like a true transfer of life force as the human becomes weaker, unable to fight back as he settles down against the floor.

He’s a beta; Amadeo can smell it and taste it in the blood. Not truly what he _needs_ , but perhaps enough.

It’s a struggle to stop drinking, to leave him alive, and he tries to pull at the man’s clothes, to get a hand around the limp cock.

“Please,” he whispers around the mouthful of blood, “please…”

But the man is gurgling, wheezing. His cock stays soft and the life is fading. Amadeo straddles him, strokes him, begs for his help, but he’s dead too soon.

“Please,” he says again, strength in his voice this time. He tears at his own clothes, exposes himself, tries to make it work to no avail. Frustrated little noises as he rocks against the body. He wants… he wants…

They leave the corpse with him. It’s a cruel way to remind him that his senses are back—able to see everything, smell him as the decay sets in. The repulsion does little to quell his _need_ , though. Just makes him even sicker.

The blood is cold and sticky and he presses his fingers to the wound, wishing that something was left. He’s so nauseated.

He’s never been heatsick before, never had reason to be. His energy is restored enough that his eyesight goes red and he paces the cell, presses his hands to his face so they won’t see him cry. Only twice now, in his short little life, he’s had to go through it, but both times he was cared for.

A sob claws its way up through his throat and he tucks himself into the corner again, his back to the door. He touches himself over his clothes, rubs desperately at his cock.

Marius didn’t let it get this far.

“Marius…” he whimpers. He strokes at himself and hiccups around the tears. “I need you. Marius. _Please_.”

But he can hear Marius, still. Hear the screams. He’d caught such a quick glance as they’d dragged him away. Saw the rage on his face as they overpowered him. And the fire after, glowing against the sky.

He tries to remember what Marius told him. That heats would be infrequent as a vampire, but intense. They could be triggered by stress. By danger.

 _By starvation?_ Amadeo wonders.

Feeding gives him the energy to cry. Not so dried out anymore, and the tears come down his face. He remembers the first time, first presenting, the way he got sick in the days before, how Marius had seen it for what it was.

“Beautiful,” he’d whispered, and lowered Amadeo into a bath to ease the cramps.

“Are you disappointed?” Amadeo asked.

“Of course not,” he pet Amadeo’s hair out of his eyes, kissed him on the temple. “You are perfect. My perfect omega.”

“Master…” he was feverish and hurt all over, unable to think straight until Marius’s fingers began to stroke at his hole, as he kissed over the artery in his throat. “ _Alpha_.”

“Yes… yes…”

Marius was so pained to leave in the morning, with the sun rising. He’d spent the better part of the night doing everything he could to wear Amadeo out. Fucked him over and over, drew blood from his neck.

Sharp teeth right over his glands, and he’d come the moment they pierced through. Again, and again, all night. In Marius’s lap, on his knot, stuck there with the teeth clamped on his neck.

So deliciously exhausted as the dawn approached, fucked out and sucked dry, lightheaded from blood loss. Marius tucked him into bed, gave Amadeo his cloak to curl into, apologized because he needed to leave. Leaned in to leave one of the red kisses to the wounds.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, and tried weakly to push Marius away. Marius was too strong, though, had done it anyway. Amadeo cried as his fingertips sought the tiny holes, disappearing as the seconds ticked by. “No, Master, I want to keep them.”

Marius had laughed gently against Amadeo’s hair. Insincere apology, condescending kiss to the forehead.

“Sleep now, I will help you again tonight.”

The instincts inside told him to panic. Alpha was leaving, _gone_ , displeased, unhappy. But Amadeo could still feel him. The bruises purpling on his skin and the red seed inside. He was able to sleep, and Marius returned to continue at the first signs of the twilight.

“Need you,” Amadeo whispers in the present, and his hand claws into the cold cell wall.

It’s not just the heat, he thinks. Maybe the grief. The emptiness is too overwhelming. _Alpha is gone_.

He reaches to touch the scar on his neck. It had happened at the end of his first heat, as he’d finally been regaining some semblance of sanity. The memory is vivid, special, the last orgasm wrung out of him as his heat broke. Marius had been splayed out against his pillows, hair all around him as Amadeo rode his cock. Kept scratching into Marius’s pale skin, only to watch the wounds heal.

“Bite me,” he’d begged. “Please, Master.”

_Mark me. Own me._

Marius’s eyes had been so dark as he sat up, as he thrust into Amadeo’s body. Animalistic as he leaned in to bite, to feed.

“Let me keep it,” Amadeo whispered, after he’d come. And Marius looked so soft then. Warm and affectionate, like Amadeo had pried beneath a mask. And he nodded, laid down with Amadeo, licked the wounds to keep them from dripping into the bedding. But he’d left them to scar on their own.

He sinks to his knees in the cell, facing the corner as if it gives him some shred of privacy. Palms over the scar with one hand as he touches himself with the other. He can feel himself leaking slick—this is not entirely what his body wants, but he can’t think of what else to do. The orgasm is so weak when it finally comes, barely a solution, and he collapses to the ground, curls in on himself.

Instinct tells him not to cry. He hasn’t fed enough, he will tire too easily. Needs to conserve his strength, shouldn’t dehydrate. But he can’t stop. The sobs rock his whole body and he wails out loud, unable to help it. It feels like it’ll never stop. He can’t imagine the pain going away, the grief, can’t see himself getting control again. It’ll just stay like this. He’ll cry and cry until he can’t anymore, until…

Until the sun comes up.

As a human he’d been worn out and distressed but managed to sleep until Marius came back. And he understands better now, why Marius had to leave. Imagines if he felt bad, if his body had hurt in turn as he settled in his sarcophagus. Leaving his omega behind, to fend for himself.

But the sun drags them under, it always does. So says the natural order. Marius wouldn’t have had time for guilt, just as Amadeo doesn’t have time for grief.

There had been a heat when he turned. Marius says it happens to everyone, just as the mortal death happens. Perhaps it is the immortal rebirth, he said. The body singing in triumph.

He knows it happened but hardly remembers. Too frenzied, too fierce. The slick was red this time and it seemed like nothing helped, like he could come again and again and again to no avail. The dawn then was a relief, something to force it to stop. Marius had let him make the nest in the interior bedroom, with no windows, and he slept there, stuffed with his master’s knot.

And the sun drags him under now. It doesn’t usually hurt so much, the way it does now, like trying to tear his cells apart. But there are the blissful few moments, right at the end, alive but not, his life shut off and mind still aware. Everything is so quiet, everything…

It doesn’t even feel worth it, though, when he wakes. It hurts more than ever. He rolls onto his side and claws at his stomach, squeezes his thighs together. He can smell himself, with the way he’s leaking. Body begging. He hasn’t fed but his skin feels hot, like a fever. He wonders if he’s imagining it. It’s how he’d felt when he’d died.

“Marius…” he whimpers against the ground. His lips brush the floor, he tastes the dirt.

What happens when his needs aren’t met? He tries to remember if Marius told him. Wonders if this can actually kill him, wonders if it’s supposed to pass. He’s not mortal anymore, though. His mind unfolds around the thought—eternity like this, writhing on Santino’s floor, forever and ever…

Marius hadn’t been clear about it. Marius never imagined his omega would be neglected this way. Marius… Marius…

His body reacts to the noise before his mind does.

The footsteps in the hallway, and the click of the lock.

His body rolls over to watch, and his instincts take over before he can stop. _Alpha_.

Santino closes the door behind him, comes closer in the cell, meets him halfway as Amadeo crawls across the floor and grabs at his legs. _Not Marius Not Marius Not Marius_ , his brain is telling him, _Not our mate, not our alpha_ , _no no no_ , but his need is louder. And the smell of him…

He’s grabbing fistfuls of Santino’s clothes, pulling himself to his feet. The smell of grave dust clings to him, the murky scent of earth and moss and damp, but he can smell Santino’s _blood_ beneath it all. Rich and warm and it throbs between his legs, through his chest, in his veins. He has to go up on his toes to press his face to the crook of Santino’s neck.

Deep gulps of air, open-mouthed, and it’s not Marius but his body doesn’t care.

 _Marius left_ , his instincts say. _Marius is gone now._

“Will you join us?” Santino asks. His voice is gentle and he places his hands on Amadeo’s shoulders, rubs up and down. Amadeo shakes beneath him, rubbing his face against Santino’s throat, delirious over the scratch of his stubble.

“Please,” he whines, “please, please, please…”

And Santino turns him then. It happens quickly, or Amadeo’s mind can’t keep up, he isn’t sure, but the hands are spinning him by the shoulders, turning him towards the wall. It aches as his eyes adjust to the nothingness, and Santino holds him by the hips, pressing in tight from behind. His hardness presses to Amadeo’s lower back and he keens. Wants it. Wants. He tries to bend forward, to present himself, but the hands grip around his hips and stop him.

“Be patient, little one,” he whispers. And he’s so gentle, _too_ gentle, as his hands slip beneath Amadeo’s tunic, skin-on-skin against his tummy, before sliding down, dipping below the waistline of his leggings.

 _Oh_ , it’s not what Amadeo wanted. Not truly, and he tries to grind himself backwards into Santino’s manhood, but Santino chuckles softly in his ear as he wraps a careful hand around Amadeo’s cock. Not truly what he needs but it takes the edge off. He goes slack against Santino’s body, craving the pleasure, the relief.

“You are so very hungry,” Santino whispers. He strokes Amadeo in long, even motions, and leans down to suck at the skin beneath his ear. Amadeo feels the way Santino inhales him, _scents_ him, and his knees feel weak. “Sweet little child.”

“Please,” Amadeo begs, and his orgasm approaches. It’s a slow build, his body begging to be filled. Not really the solution, but it will help in some small way. He still wants it.

“Join us,” Santino says. His teeth scrape across Amadeo’s neck. Hand twists expertly, thumb swiping across his cockhead, and Amadeo’s body tenses.

He never says it out loud. Realizes too late that he doesn’t need to. The thought was enough of a hint of disgust, of rebellion, still homesick and full of fire, thinking of _his alpha_ , and that’s all Santino needs to know. He bites down on Amadeo’s neck, right over his old scar, and right as the orgasm is upon him it all stops.

“No,” he whines. “No, please… please…”

Santino pulls back, wipes his hand on Amadeo’s clothes. He lets go, and Amadeo falls forward, knees still weak, and catches himself against the wall as Santino is opening the door.

He considers lying.

“You won’t lie to me,” Santino says softly. He has the audacity to sound disappointed and Amadeo claws at the wall, ready to scream. He considers apologizing and isn’t sure if that’s truthful, but he can’t find the words before the door is closing and Santino is gone.

The smell of alpha hangs in the air. Not Amadeo’s alpha, which almost makes it repulsive, but his body is desperate. He’s almost ready to stop being so picky.

His modesty leaves him as he sinks to his knees, as he takes himself in hand, desperate to finish. He spreads his legs and uses his other hand, tries to push inside himself as he strokes, frantic and devastated, unable to care if the others see him like this. Can’t care anymore, just needs the relief.

 _Oh, oh, sweet little omega_ , Marius had said to him, that first time. When he was still human. He’d pet Amadeo’s hair away from his face and his hands had been so icy, pressing against his forehead for relief against the fever. _Poor little child needs to be bred. You must be filled with your master’s young._

Marius’s voice echoes in his head, the memory vivid as he strips at himself. _You will carry my children so well._

He knows now that Marius could not have bred him. The red seed isn’t good for that. But it’s what he needed to hear, what his instincts craved.

The orgasm builds the way his grief does—tight in his chest, fighting its way out—so that he comes with a sob. It does so little to silence the discomfort, just enough to feel clear-headed for a moment. Enough that his surroundings become more real, and Marius feels more gone. He hiccups and covers his face, hunches over and begins to bawl.

It’s unwise, he knows this. Needs to save his energy, his tears, but he can’t help it.

The more time goes by, the smaller Marius feels. Not just that Amadeo misses him, but that this piece of his life feels more and more like a dream.

Because his cell feels like the monastery. Cool beneath the earth, the same stale smell of dirt. And it’s as dark as his hold in the ship, where he’d been sold to men to see them through their ruts.

His life has taken him from dark room to dark room, and the brief respite feels like a dream.

A scream bursts from him and his body twists upon itself. He pulls his hair.

It was foolish to believe his life could hold light. To believe anything Marius said.

He touches between his legs, presses into his body. His fingers are too small but there’s nothing else. Nothing else.

Men have used his body so many times and this is the first time he’s been left to yearn. He tries to conjure memories of his time captive, when it had been the last thing he’d wanted. Tries to remember how it might feel for this simple act to invoke disgust.

But it slips away from him. Even the memories are distorted, colored by his current need.

Please… please…

He’s deep underground and has no windows, but he can feel the sun. A couple hours off now, closing in, and he wishes it would come faster. Even if it’s not worth it by tomorrow, anything to embrace the calm.

There’s blood everywhere—his tears and cum and slick—smeared across his face, his shirt, between his legs, across his belly. Marius’s bath seems a distant fever dream, something that never truly happened, something he can’t even desire anymore as the door opens a final time.

And this time…

His body goes rigid as he smells the alpha again.

Part of him knows he’s been through too much here. That it’s been unfair, cruel, monstrous. And part of him can’t remember the difference. His life was always going to come to this, he thinks. Small dark rooms, at the service of others. It’s where he belongs, really.

“Are you ready?” Santino asks.

Amadeo wails and pulls at his remaining clothes. The air is cool on his skin as he turns away, bends forward on hands and knees, nails digging into the ground as his hips raise and he presents himself.

Santino’s voice is closer when he speaks again. His scent washes over Amadeo in a wave. It’s a flood of need, hormones like benzoin, like leather. Amadeo hears his heartbeat—steady and soft, unbothered as he approaches.

“Sweet orphan child,” he says, and his cool hand is touching against Amadeo’s cheek, pulling him open to look. “Helpless little omega.”

“Please…”

“You will give yourself to us.”

It isn’t a question this time, not quite. Amadeo’s breath hitches and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You will join us.”

Santino shuffles behind him. He hears the shift of his clothes, and the hand squeezes against his cheek, and then the blunt head of his cock is there, teasing against his wet hole. He drags it up and down against Amadeo’s cleft.

“Not even those as wretched as we should suffer as you suffer. Come to me.”

And just as before, he doesn’t need to say it. His elbows buckle and his body goes lax in submission, in obedience, and at long last he feels himself breached, opened, stretching and burning around the size of it. He moans against the ground as Santino sinks in, perhaps deliberately slow, holding Amadeo by the hips to control the pace.

“Yes, child,” he whispers, and holds tight as he bottoms out, tortures Amadeo there. “My obedient child. Beautiful Child of Darkness.”

Amadeo rocks back, trying to soothe the need. Relief washes over his whole body and clears his head in an instant as he feels the _fullness_ of it, yet he only needs more. More and more.

Santino squeezes him, nails leaving dimples as he begins to recite the rules.

Maybe Amadeo has heard them before. He can’t quite remember. Maybe before, when he was too weak with hunger to really listen. But Santino says them all again, patient as he drills into Amadeo from behind, as he nails into his prostate over and over. It’s a guideline throughout, a piece of context stringing him along, allowing him to focus.

It feels like his real life, finally. Dark room to dark room, but this one is quite nice.

“We do not enter churches, for God should strike us dead if we do,” declares Santino. Amadeo moans and arches his back. He’s so wet, and the cadence of Santino’s voice makes it worse. It trills in the bottom of his head. _Alpha alpha alpha, do as he says._ “We do not look upon the crucifix, and its mere presence on a chain around the neck of a victim is sufficient to save the mortal’s life.”

“Yes, yes, alpha, yes, I understand—“

“We turn our eyes and fingers from the medals of the Virgin,” he says. His hips punctuate his words, sharp thrusts to drive the message home. “We… cower… before… the images… of… the saints.”

“We cower before… the images of the _saints—“_ Amadeo gasps and repeats back to him. “Please, please _alpha—“_

“We are a curse of the shadows.”

“I must come, may I come?”

“Repeat, little fledgling. We are a curse of the shadows.”

Amadeo thinks he starts to cry. “We are a curse of the shadows!”

“We are a secret.”

“ _We are a secret!!”_

“We are eternal.”

He sobs out and the orgasm hits. He clenches around Santino’s cock, body desiring the seed, aching for his alpha’s knot, but Santino slaps him hard on the cheek. It throws a stripe of red through his pleasure, and for a moment he can’t find his breath.

“We are eternal,” Santino says again, and when Amadeo doesn’t respond there’s another strike. He feels it blooming beneath his skin, tingling purple, blending out to warm gold. He reaches for his own cock, ready to come a second time, but Santino bends forward and grabs him by the wrist, pins it to the ground next to his head. “Disobedient whelp. Naughty boy who mocks all things in ignorance.”

He pants, getting lungfuls of dusty air as he tries to remember the words he needs. Santino begins to draw away, slowly, inch by inch until Amadeo is almost empty. Then the bump of his crown on Amadeo’s rim and the language rushes back to his brain in desperation.

“Please, please, we are eternal! Please!”

“Please what,” he says, voice low. He reaches beneath Amadeo’s body and fondles his abs, pinches at his nipples, then hauls him upwards and backwards, until they’re on their knees. Upright. It sinks him deeper on Santino’s cock and he cries out, dizzy from it. One of Santino’s hands falls to Amadeo’s cock, pulling at it as he breathes against his ear. The other hand crushes lovingly against Amadeo’s throat.

“Please, I need—“ he hiccups for breath, rising up on his knees to control the pace. Santino strokes him hard, unrelenting as he convulses, and he comes a second time before he can speak.

“Needy young thing,” Santino says against his ear, and the hair rises on Amadeo’s neck. He squirms in Santino’s lap. “Greedy thing, full of sin.”

Words and words and words.

“Your knot, master, I need your knot...”

The hand tightens around his throat, and the blood pulses hard in his face. His body doesn’t need the air, he knows that. But it’s the illusion of it, the pressure, claustrophobic and unnatural and his voice is such a tiny squeak. Pathetic and small.

“Do you take the solemn vow to obey the Coven in the Ways of Darkness as Satan would have it?” he whispers. He bites softly at the shell of Amadeo’s ear and thrusts hard into him. “And his Lord and Creator, God, would have it?”

“ _I do!_ ” he cries, voice ragged as he chokes. “I do I do I do—“

“Satan and Christ,” he says, amidst languid rolls of his hips, “brothers in the House of the Lord, we give you this perfected soul…”

And the swell of him, the beginnings of his knot, have Amadeo spilling one last time. Santino strokes him through it as he comes, himself, and then lifts the bloody fingers for Amadeo to clean. It’s so unholy, this sacrament of his own seed, warm on his lips as he sucks at Santino’s fingers. Feels like an anointment into this world, and the darkness one more feels like a home.

Santino is quiet as he spills, a tiny grunt and then he’s inhaling against Amadeo’s dusty hair. Amadeo’s whole body floods with pleasure and satiety, feeling that pinch of nausea from the seed inside, but the fullness of the knot. He begins to rise on his knees, one more experimental thrust to test, and the tug of the knot on his rim sends the satisfaction spiraling.

“Rest now,” Santino says, and he’s pulling Amadeo down to the ground, lying on their sides, curling behind him. Arms around Amadeo’s waist, and it feels familiar but he can’t recall why. Unimportant as his alpha settles in, locked together now.

And the sun is coming. Soon. He feels it in his limbs, in his Blood.

He’ll wake up with his alpha, he knows. In this dark room, and his other life will remain a dream.

Maybe the dawn is worth it this time, pulling him under, giving him peace.

Dark room to dark room, and in those final moments, paralyzed by the rising sun, he hears their voices, taunting from the past.

It puts a spike of fear in his heart.

_Andrei, what made you think you could escape? Didn’t you know that God had called you?_

There’s a frantic gasp, last moment, mind clear enough to contemplate running. The door is unlocked, he’d have time to find a hiding place from the sun, he just—

But Santino stirs behind him, wraps his arms tighter. Rolls his hips and it floods Amadeo with the cursed pleasure. And he can’t move, not really. Not like this. Locked to his alpha.

 _Oh Lord, Lord hear my prayer…_ if only he could see the Holy Face.

But he is forbidden such things.

**Author's Note:**

> [Say hi on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/kacyinthecosmos)


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